


Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln

by AdeleDazeem



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, followed by some light podcast bashing, meet-cute-then not so cute, some light podcast fangirling, this is pure unfiltered crack, with some harmless fluff and a dash of pyromaniacs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdeleDazeem/pseuds/AdeleDazeem
Summary: “You're in a room full of people, most of whom are also drinking. You're hardly alone.” And damn, Lexa just about pats herself on the back for stringing that many words together, let alone keep her voice steady, with those blue eyes taunting her.Clarke looks similarly impressed, for a moment at least, before doubling down on her efforts. “And yet.” She leans in a bit, bites her lip, a move Lexa is helpless but to watch with rapt attention. “I'm lonely for you only.”///In which Lexa likes personal space and private puns and Clarke has no shame or regard for social norms.What could go wrong?





	Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln

**Author's Note:**

> Q: How many cheesy pick up lines can we fit into one story?  
> A: Let's find out.

The blonde flops down next to her, body effortlessly molding into the rickety seat as if it were a bean bag, and this dated theater her best friend’s living room.

 

Or Lexa assumes that is what it is like.

 

Truthfully, she’s only ever seen bean bag chairs in cheesy tv shows, and Anya would probably cut her feet off if Lexa ever tried to get comfortable and put said feet up in her living room. So while she isn’t herself familiar with the scenario, she can imagine.

 

The long, relieved sigh the other woman breathes out, however, _is_  something Lexa can relate to. Lexa breathes the same one every week night as soon as her apartment door closes behind her.

 

Lexa is not breathing one such sigh now, though. She watches as the woman comes perilously close to spilling the drinks clutched in her hands. Lexa discreetly shuffles her boots away from the potential splash zone. Even with regular Scotchgarding, the last thing she wants is unknown, most likely alcoholic beverages all over her prized suede chelseas.

 

That would really put a _damper_ on the evening, Lexa thinks. She puts a pin in the pun to tell Anya later.

 

The whole row is empty save for Lexa and one preppy couple blocking the aisle. When the blonde with the bevy of beverages had asked if any of the vacant seats were taken and Lexa had responded in the negative, she hadn't been expecting for her to then sit in the seat immediately next to hers.

 

Lexa is contemplating the merit of having told the truth when the woman beside her exhales, “Fuuuuck, that booze line was TSA-type’a long.”

 

She isn't exactly talking to Lexa, but she also isn't exactly talking to anyone else either. The couple at the end of the row haven’t looked over, and the people in front of them haven’t turned around. Which leaves just Lexa.

 

The woman has arranged her drinks now. All three of them. Not that Lexa is _judging_ , just surprised the bartender served her more drinks than she has hands for. There's a beer in the cup holder in front of her, a clear bubbly drink in each hand, and even though these seats (this whole theater, really) have definitely seen better days, she still manages to look perfectly at ease sprawled across their ramshackle frame.

 

Before Lexa can decide whether a response is warranted on her part (not that she would know what to say if it was, having forwent the “booze line” in favor of getting a good seat), the blonde has turned to her and thrust one of the aforementioned drinks into her jealously guarded personal space. “Here,” she says cheerfully, easy smile stretching pink lips.

 

Lexa is struck by just how pretty that smile is.

 

The blonde gives the cup in her hand a bit of a wiggle, signaling for Lexa to take it from her. Lexa’s eyes are pulled away from perfectly white teeth back to the sweating drink. Confusion plays obvious across her features as she gingerly takes it. Two eyebrows twitch teasingly in her direction. Even though Lexa has (presumably?) done as she was meant to and taken the drink, the blonde keeps her hand outstretched.

 

“Uh…”

 

“I'm Clarke.”

 

Blessedly, Lexa’s reflexes decide now would be a good time to kick back in, saving her from being distracted further by the slight gravel in the woman’s voice. She takes the hand, obviously held out for a shake, she realizes now, replies, “Lexa,” and has never been more grateful for the water cycle. More specifically: condensation. Most specifically: the condensation from the cup that is now coating her and Clarke’s fingers so she can't feel just how sweaty Lexa’s are.

 

 _Jesus, Woods, get a grip_ - _literally._ She shudders to think what Anya would say if she were here to witness this horrid display of middle school level nerves. Probably nothing, just a lot of mean spirited cackling. Suddenly, she’s beyond grateful her best friend could not join her tonight.

 

Before she can dwell too long on the decided horrifying scene that could have been, Clarke pulls Lexa back to the much more pleasant reality of Clarke’s hand still snug in her own. “It's nice to meet you, Lexa,” she practically purrs, and once again Lexa is distracted by this woman’s mouth - this time by the indulgent way it's wrapping around the two syllables of her name.

 

The confidence this woman is oozing is so powerful Lexa cuts her eyes behind Clarke to see if the preppy couple sitting at the top of their row have been similarly affected. Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Lauren’s matching sweater vests must have some protective quality though, because the two remain unscathed, still debating the merits of prenatal classical music as vociferously as they were when Lexa sat down. Lexa cuts her eyes from the ridiculous couple back to the equally ridiculous woman in front of her. What a crowd.

 

She wasn’t sure what she expected when she bought her ticket to this live-taping. Podcasts, unlike bands, tended to appeal to a wider demographic than any one music genre. And given, this particular show’s topic: serial killers and conspiracy theories, mixed with off-colour jokes, she really wasn’t sure what kind of audience she would be joining.

 

Lexa can’t help but contrast woman’s outfit next to her -- black leather jacket, heavy eye make-up, and even heavier looking boots -- to her own -- sensible blazer, thick-rimmed glasses, perfectly ironed button up. Lexa came from the office. This woman looks to have just come from the set of an indie rock music video. They couldn’t look less suited for each other if they tried.

 

Lexa’s pretty sure she’s never met someone quite like the woman sitting beside her. And that thought definitely isn’t based on her wardrobe.

 

This woman is equal parts unsettling and unnerving and intriguing. Lexa has never met another adult comfortable enough in themselves to be so playful. It’s intoxicating, really, and Lexa can’t help but return the other woman’s grin, just a little. The word “dopey” floats through her mind.

 

A couple of beats later - long after the the point socially accepted, Lexa notices - Clarke is pulling her hand back and Lexa is tamping down a shiver at the blonde’s fingers trailing across her palm. Probably from the chilly condensation still coating their palms, she thinks. Maybe if she rubs her hand on her jeans it will stifle the tingling. She tests her theory. It doesn't.

 

It also doesn’t escape Clarke. She notices and grins. “Sorry for getting you wet so early in the night.” The line is delivered with all the “charm” of the dudebros Lexa had the misfortune of tangling with in college. The main difference between the two however, is that when Clarke delivers this absurd line, Lexa doesn't feel like decking her, just gawking at her audacity.

 

Clarke checks over her shoulder, towards the entrance before leaning in towards Lexa, wavy blonde hair practically glowing in the orange light from above, and whispers conspiratorially, “I've been told I come on a bit strong.”

 

_Yep. Definitely never met someone like this._

 

“I wonder where anyone would get that idea,” Lexa mumbles under her breath once she regains it.

 

Clarke laughs at that. A full, loud and honest laugh. She clearly wasn't expecting any sort of response from her chosen conversation partner.

 

It's such an abrupt outburst it has the people sitting in front of them turning around, eyebrows raised. Clarke waves them off, laughter still in her voice. “Don't worry. It wasn't about you.” Dismissed, they turn back towards the front and Clarke breathes out a mischievous “yet” for only Lexa to hear.

 

Lexa rolls her eyes at this strange, yet charming, woman-child who is now sipping happily on her drink. Pleased as punch one might say, Lexa muses. Speaking of which... She holds Clarke’s second drink back out to her to take again now that the introduction is over.

 

Clarke just chuckles in response and shakes her head. “Uh uh.” She smiles around the thin black straw trapped between her teeth. “That one’s for you, hot stuff.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, Lexa. For you.” Clarke laughs again; it isn't as disruptive as earlier. It has Lexa’s complete attention nonetheless. Maybe it has to do with the way she says Lexa’s name. Like she wants to be saying it in other situations.

 

Or maybe it’s just Lexa wanting that.

 

“Surely this isn't the first time a woman has bought you a drink.” Clarke snorts out the statement, clearly amused by the assumed preposterousness of the idea.

 

She is right, though. It isn't Lexa’s first time; not by a long shot. Lexa is attractive - she's humble, not stupid - and while she's also no “Shane” or whatever, she's not unused to female attention. Even when she and Costia were together, engagement ring and everything, women still approached her.

 

Some people just had no shame.

 

Lexa learned the hard way that her fiance had been one of those people.

 

 _Ex-fiance_ , Lexa amends needlessly.

 

It had been months - eight to be exact - since /that/ whole venture had blown up in her face. And though she was past the actual heartbreak - given some time and distance, she soon realized she and Costia had never really /worked/; Lexa had just been checking boxes she thought she needed to check when she had proposed to Costia; Lexa was nothing if not practical, after all - her pride still smarted a little at the memory. She assumed that was just par for the course though when you walk in on your supposed soon-to-be life partner drilling someone else. Lexa was mostly offended they had the gall to do it on her new Egyptian cotton sheets.

 

When Anya came to pick Lexa up two hours later with lighter fluid and a zippo, she was quick to point out Lexa’s reaction might be a clue to something more. “If your main hang up with being cheated on is about the sanctity of your bed linens, not your actual relationship, you’re probably better off, Lex.”

 

Lexa agreed.

 

This realization didn’t stop them though from dragging the sheet set, pillows, and memory foam mattress pad out to some vacant lot Anya had of course known about, stuffing them in a steel drum and set them on fire. There was something incredibly cathartic and downright satisfying about the whole thing.

 

“It’s not really about the sheets,” Lexa had softly clarified some time later as the two women stood watching their small bonfire.

 

Anya pulled a flask out from her jacket pocket and handed it to the other woman. “I know.”

 

It was about the life she thought they had been building together. The life Costia had decided some other woman had been more important than.

 

"I wish she would have just told me she wasn't happy."

 

"Were you?"

 

They stood there for a while longer, Anya shifting the burning contents of the drum with a piece of rebar she’d found nearby.

 

“Should I be worried about how positively gleeful you look right now?” Lexa asked Anya after she squirted more lighter fluid than was strictly necessary onto the blaze, causing it to shoot flames three feet out of the top of the container.

 

“I think you should be more worried about what other stuff might have been burned in this thing. Stuff that _your_ stuff, with _your_  DNA, is now irrevocably mixed in with.”

 

Lexa choked on her swig of whisky. “ _What_?” She spluttered, wiping the alcohol from her chin with the back of her hand.

 

Anya cackled at the look of alarm on the other woman’s face. “Joking. Totally joking. This drum is mine. No bloody crime scene evidence in there that I know of.”

 

“ _Yours_? Where in the hell did you even _find_  a drum like this, Anya? Don’t tell me you stole it from some poor homeless person.”

 

Anya rolled her eyes at the glare Lexa levelled her with. The _really, Lex?_ was understood

 

“Also," Lexa continued, a new thought having occurred to her, "how did you even get this thing out here? You drive a coupe. My pantry has more storage space than your car.”

 

Anya was wholly nonplussed by the interrogation. “You were more than content to come out here and set fire to your personal property without any questions just a few minutes ago. Do you really want to start up with them now?”

 

Lexa decided her friend had a good point. She took another swig off the flask and motioned for Anya to give her the lighter fluid. “I think it’s my turn to ‘fan the flames of rebirth,’ or whatever spiritual bullshit you said earlier.”

 

Lexa was surprised to find it was just as much fun as Anya made it look.

 

Costia dropped the engagement ring off a week later, and Lexa and Anya took a second field trip, this time to an only slightly less shady location: a pawnshop. Lexa sold both Costia’s flashy ring and the simple band she had bought for her own left hand, then turned around and used the money to buy even nicer sheets. And a new mattress. One that was firm, exactly like she preferred, but had not been allowed to buy last time because Costia had wanted something softer than a board to fuck other women on apparently.

 

And with that, she was finished. Lexa closed the door on her and Costia and resettled into her life. And if another, different door were to open in the future, at least she would have soft sheets to enjoy while she waited.

 

From the outside, the whole exchange probably seemed cold or materialistic. But it wasn’t about the objects themselves; it was about getting a fresh start. Anya understood her. Or she just used the whole thing as an excuse to indulge in her pyromaniac tendencies. Lexa didn’t particularly care either way, because Anya hadn’t judge her decisions during “the cleansing” as she had called it. There were benefits to having a friend like Anya.

 

Benefits that did not extend to accompanying her oldest and dearest friend to the live-taping of her favorite podcast.

 

“No, Lexa, I do not want to accompany you to your nerdy podcast show,” Anya had drawled earlier in the week, when Lexa had called to propose the outing.

 

“It’s far from nerdy, Anya. It’s about _murder_  and the hosts are hil--”

 

“Hold on one second, I have to go bang my head against a wall.”

 

“Ha ha. I really do think you’d like it though--”

 

“Lex, do me a favor? Take your phone away from your ear and look at the caller ID.” Lexa did as she was told. “Now. Read to me. What does it say?”

 

“Is this really necessary?”

 

“Read it to me.”

 

“Anya Lachman…?”

 

“Yes! Anya Lachman. Not NPR. The answer is no.”

 

And with that, Anya Lachman-Not-NPR had hung up the phone. And Lexa had been left to attend tonight’s show by herself, nevermind the fact that this podcast could not be further from NPR’s brand of reporting.

 

Lexa had settled in to the idea of a relatively antisocial evening. She figured she would come to the show, have a good time, then head home to catch up on some journal articles she had been stockpiling, all without talking to another soul with any luck.

 

From the looks of it, though, her plan has since had a wrench thrown into it. A very pretty, blonde wrench...with the flirting techniques and self confidence of a frat president.

 

A wrench whose blue, blue eyes were currently looking at Lexa from beneath absurdly thick eyelashes.

 

“Come on, _Lexa_.” She wheedles, putting extra emphasis on the newly acquired name, causing its owner to pink ever so slightly. Lexa is pretty sure the lighting in this old theater is shoddy enough to obscure it. It isn't. Clarke grins. “Surely you're not going to make me drink alone?”

 

“You're in a room full of people, most of whom are also drinking. You're hardly alone.” And damn, Lexa just about pats herself on the back for stringing that many words together, let alone keep her voice steady, with those blue eyes taunting her.

 

Clarke looks similarly impressed, for a moment at least, before doubling down on her efforts. “And yet.” She leans in a bit, bites her lip, a move Lexa is helpless but to watch with rapt attention. “I'm lonely for you only.”

 

“Wow.” Lexa pauses. Breathes. Repeats, “wow,” then leans back into her seat. “Did that...” she looks back over at the blonde. “Did you actually just say that?”

 

Clarke laughs. Lexa is quickly finding it to be one of her favorite sounds. She is also quickly sickening herself with how much of a sap she is sounding like. Obviously her abstinence in the wake of Costia has gotten to her head. What other excuse could she come up with for how much this relative stranger seems to be affecting her?

 

As Clarke looks at her, blue eyes sparkling, she can think of at least one.

 

“Yes, yes, I did,” the grin she wears now looks a bit sheepish now. “Definitely not my best work, I’ll admit. But what can I say? Pretty girls tend to make me nervous.”

 

Lexa is caught by how surprisingly earnest the line sounds. She is shocked to find her heart give a little squeeze. ‘Pathetic,’ she hears Anya whisper derisively in her head.

 

“Is that, so?”

 

“Yes,” She says decisively. “So what do you say? Gonna leave a girl disappointed?”

 

Lexa looks from the drink in her hand back up to the woman leaning into her space, blonde hair just barely brushing the lapel of Lexa’s blazer. This feels a like an open door. Probably to just a one-night stand, if the woman’s flirty demeanor is anything to go by. But Lexa is fine with that. Less mess, less expectations, less lighter fluid in the long run.

 

Eight months is a long time. And, there’s something about Clarke that makes Lexa want to stray from her carefully structured practicality and be a little reckless.

 

“I haven’t been known to,” she answers with a smirk of her own, taking a gulp of her drink and settling back into her seat comfortably. Vodka, soda. Simple. Classic. It’s one of Lexa’s go-to’s, but she tries not to dwell on that too much.

 

Clarke seems to be just as captivated by Lexa’s smirk as Lexa has been by hers, if her eye line is anything to go by. Lexa lets that info soak in, feels it rush through her veins. Her confidence swells.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Clarke says as she another drink from the cup still in her hand. She is still leaning on the armrest that separates their seats, her hair is just dancing along Lexa’s sleeve now, and Lexa finds herself overcome with an urge to reach out and touch it.

 

“Tell me the truth, Clarke, did you buy a slew of beverages with the intent of seducing whoever it was you just happened to be sitting next to?”

 

“The truth, huh?”

 

“So help you God.”

 

She leans back in her chair, and there’s that same sheepish grin again. “Okay. The truth is that you walked past me while I was in line at the bar. I would have followed you in immediately, but given how serious your face was… I figured a little alcohol might help my case. Sooo, I bought this slew of beverages with the intent of _befriending_  you. But if _seduction_  is on the table, who am I to deny a beautiful woman?”

 

The confident smirk is back by the end of the statement, as is Clarke leaning on the armrest and skirting back into Lexa’s personal space. The lights flicker on and off, signalling the show is soon to begin. It makes Clarke's eyes flash.

 

“Who are you, indeed?” Lexa repeats a little spellbound.

 

“I’m just a girl sitting beside another girl, who is very much looking forward to getting to know you _and_  hearing some debaucherous jokes about serial killers tonight. I’m not terribly picky about in what order those happen. We have all night. So what do you say, Lexa? Is the alcohol helping my case? Or do I need to buy you another drink?”

 

“I think,” Lexa licks her lip, watches the other woman watch the action with wide blue eyes, and tilts her head forward. “The next drink should be on me.”

 

“A true gentlewoman, I see.”

 

“Who said anything about being gentle?”

 

Lexa knows the look on her face is just as predatory as the one on Clarke’s. Clarke’s got her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, and looks like she is just about to say something else when--

 

“ _PRINCESS_ ,” is yelled out from the aisle.

 

Clarke swears under her breath and turns around to watch a good looking, dark-haired woman advance towards them. The woman, who apparently knows Clarke, grunts out an impatient ‘excuse me’ to the couple blocking her path before shimmying further down the aisle towards where Clarke and Lexa are sat.

 

“There you are,” the stranger says, “I have been calling you for the past 15 minutes. You are the worst date ever in the history of dates. Like even worse than that time Ol' Abe took the missus to a play and never came back.”

 

Clarke laughs and looks around at the old theater they're currently sitting in. "Well, I make no promises, O, but I supremely hope no one gets assassinated in this theater tonight. Surely that counts for something. I'm sorry though; I must have left my phone in your car when you dropped me off.” Clarke adds before grabbing the beer out of the cupholder in front of her and offering it to the woman with a flourish. “Am I still a bad date if I got you a beer?”

 

Clarke has her head turned away from Lexa, towards the other woman, so she can’t see for sure, but she is pretty certain Clarke is giving this “O” woman a pair of puppy dog eyes. They must be pretty convincing too because the next thing she knows, the new aisle-mate is throwing her arm around the back of Clarke’s chair and kissing her cheek louder than Lexa thought possible. It feels a little like an assassination. (Of her hopes, albeit, but still.)

 

“You. Are. The. Best.” She grabs the beer and take a hearty gulp. “Second on the date-quality scale only to me. I did just brave countless vagrants and dubious street signs to find us a parking spot, after all.”

 

“My hero.”

 

“Anything for you, princess.”

 

Lexa turns away, and is thankfully saved from having to witness anymore of the scene unfolding next to her by the lights dimming completely, and the well-known intro music issuing forth from the speakers. The theater is engulfed in applause and screams as the hosts of the podcast take the stage and begin their show, but Lexa is too distracted to appreciate any of this because she is quietly boiling in rage.

 

This woman, who has been flirting with Lexa shamelessly since she sat down (and who Lexa has been flirting with herself, she notes with not a minute amount of humiliation) has a _girlfriend_.

 

What a _skank_.

 

The nerve of this woman. Her and the other woman seem perfect for each other if their easy banter was anything to go by. That level of comfort and ease can only be derived from a long, positive relationship.

 

Why the hell would she be hitting on Lexa? All while her girlfriend could walk in at any moment? That was beyond brazen. That was-- Lexa didn’t know what it was, just that she didn’t want to be any part of it.

 

What an _idiot_.

 

Lexa directs this last insult at herself.

 

The show goes on, with Lexa paying only sparing attention to it. The little nudges and whispers between the two girls next to her has her too wound up to enjoy anything happening on stage. Lexa is half enraged at Clarke, half enraged at herself for being so bothered by this _stranger_.

 

The half-empty drink sits sweating in her hand, a cold reminder. It takes every speck of control Lexa has not to crush the flimsy plastic in her fist. Her chelseas would never recover from that. The feeling is familiar.

 

When the last slide is shown on screen, and the men on stage begin their closing ribald remarks, Lexa excuses herself out the other end of the aisle. It’s incredibly rude and disruptive - the show is technically not over yet - but Lexa can’t stand being in the room for a moment longer.

 

When she passes the last person and turns to go up the aisle towards the exit, she makes the mistake of looking back. Clarke’s blue eyes are boring into her quizzically. The blonde lifts a hand to wave, and Lexa marches off with all the righteous fury she can muster channel into putting one foot in front of the other. She throws the cup in the first trashcan she sees, liquid flying everywhere with the force.

 

She doesn’t look back.

 

When she gets home she skips over the vodka bottle in the front of the cabinet, goes straight to the Jameson.

 

///

 

It’s a week later, and Lexa is enjoying another whisky.

 

She’s eating dinner at a pub close to her office. It’s been a long week, and Lexa is rewarding herself with a meal and drink out. There’s just something better about a drink poured by someone else’s hand.

 

Anya may or may not be joining her later, depending on whether “the clusterfuck” at her work resolves itself in a timely manner. Lexa isn’t too concerned. She's not afraid of eating alone. She’s mastered the resting bitch face well enough that most other patrons think better about striking up a conversation.

 

She is about to take another bite, fork poised halfway to her mouth, when she is interrupted. Perhaps her resting bitch face is less effective when her mouth is hanging open, waiting for food.

 

“Well I’ll be damned.”

 

Lexa pauses, back stiff as a board. She remembers that husky voice. How could she not?

 

The problem is that she had hoped to never run into this frustratingly attractive, but mostly just frustrating asshole again.

 

“Lexa, right? I would know that jawline anywhere. Clarke,” the blonde who has been haunting her most angry of thoughts this past week, points to herself as she insinuates her body next to Lexa at the bar. “From the show last week?”

 

Lexa just gives the woman a blank stare -- which is more than she deserves, really.

 

“I sat next to you? Nearly spilled alcoholic beverages all over your suede chelsea boots? Terrorized you for the better part of 15 minutes before eventually winning you over with my charm and offer of free booze? Any of this ringing any bells?”

 

  
She looks over Clarke's shoulder back the way she came. There's a dark-headed woman sitting in a booth a few tables over. The woman is facing the other direction, but Lexa is willing to bet it's the same woman from the other night. She clenches her jaw and grinds out. "Funny. I recall it going differently."

 

Unperturbed by the cold tone, Clarke sallies forth. She rests an elbow on the bar and angles her body towards Lexa. "So the details are a bit fuzzy. Why don't you buy me that drink you owe me and we can discuss it until our stories are straight."

 

Lexa’s jaw is just about broken, she’s clenching it so hard during. She sets her knife and fork back on the plate, lest she be tempted to do something rash and decidedly illegal, and spins around on her barstool, fixing Clarke with her most intimidating stare. They are much closer than Lexa intended, given the awkward angle of the stool, but she can’t back down now. _Show no weakness_ , she commands herself.

 

Clarke to her credit, flinches only minutely at the movement. Perhaps as surprised as Lexa is at how close their faces are (much closer than they were last week in the drab theater).

Normally this sort of thing wouldn't bother Lexa quite so much. It takes a lot to ruffle her feathers and she usually prefers just to let dissatisfactory occurrences roll off her back. Close the door on them and move the hell on with her life. She did as much with Costia. She’s really never been one for lingering.

 

But maybe she is still a little raw from the Costia thing, maybe there’s still a cold chill blowing in through the crack under that door. Or maybe she’s a little miffed this woman and her obnoxious tactics were actually working on her. She thought she was above playing the fool. How dare this woman be so attractive and so immoral and Lexa nearly fall for it. Regardless of the underlying reasoning, her blood boils anew.

 

  
Does she have some blinking sign over her head inviting people to "Step Right Up, Make a Fool of Me Please"? She’s never taken herself to look like a sucker, and yet: Here she is.

 

  
  
"How about instead, you leave me alone and go back to your girlfriend." Her voice is dark as the other girl’s eyeliner. She is pleased with her control when it comes out only a fraction above a whisper. Shouting has never been her thing. Especially not in a public place such as this.

 

  
"My what, now?" A blonde eyebrow is lifted quizzically in her direction, as Clarke rears back like Lexa just spat in her face.

 

  
"Your date, Clarke. The woman you were with at the show? Remember? The other one you bought a drink for? O, was it?" She bites out, jerks her head in the direction of the booth the woman in question is seated in.  


 

Clarke must be in shock that the jig is up, because her eyebrows are still crinkled and her mouth is slightly agape.  


 

"I don't abide cheating, Clarke." With that she turns back to the plate in front of her, knife and fork resituated to continue cutting up her french fries, dinner interruption thoroughly dismissed.

 

“Neither do I.”

 

Except the interruption is not dismissed. Lexa sighs and rests her wrists on the bar. She doesn’t set her knife and fork down this time. Clearly this woman is going to be more difficult to shake than she thought. Why the hell had she said no to a refill earlier when the bartender asked?

 

“Nor do I abide dating my friends’ girlfriends, actually.”

 

Lexa’s eyebrows scrunch so hard several Chilean miners could get trapped in the crevice. Because what in the frilly frick does that have to do with their current conversation? She cuts her eyes back over to the blonde crazy person beside her, weighing her options between calling the bartender over and having him remove Clarke or just removing her own self from the bar. She has plenty more whisky at home.

 

Clarke stays her with a chuckle. “ _That girl_  I was with at the show,” she mocks Lexa’s dark tone, “is my roommate Octavia. She’s dating my friend Lincoln. Not me.”

 

Lexa’s eyebrows are still scrunched, processing this new information. She eyes Clarke, suspicion clear in the green depths. Then, as if he fell from the sky in a fiery spaceship, she sees a tall muscled man make his way over to the booth Clarke had just indicated. Clarke follows her line of sight and looks back in time to see the girl, Octavia, hop up and give him a kiss before shuffling him into the booth.

 

 _Oh_. The lightbulb finally clicks on and Clarke grins large.

 

“Yeah,” and for a second Clarke is just standing there grinning at Lexa. It feels kind of like standing in the sun on the first day of spring, which is a line Lexa vows never to tell Anya. The bartender chooses this moment to come back over, clears his throat and asks Lexa if she would like another whisky.

 

“Umm,” Lexa stammers out, still regaining her sense from the turn of events or the sunshine coming from the woman standing next to her. Both, probably.

 

The woman who is taking a step away.  _Wait what?_

 

“Well. Now that that horrible misunderstanding is cleared up. I’ll let you get back to your,” she pauses, raises a good-humored eyebrow at Lexa’s plate, “french fries that you are eating with a knife and fork like some sort of queen.”

 

She’s already brushing past Lexa, smile softer now, surprisingly less confidant, when Lexa remembers how to put letters together and form words.

 

“Wait.” And Clarke is stopping and turning back around to face her. “Um. About that drink I owe you?”

 

And just like that the smile is back to dazzling. It flicks on so fast, Lexa can’t help but feel like maybe she just got played. She finds she isn’t miffed like she was the last time.

 

Clarke slides onto the barstool next to her and Lexa signals the bartender to bring her two more whiskys. Their thighs brush against each other under the bar, and Lexa is going to need that next whisky asap if her heart’s little skip is anything to go by.

 

“Now that I’m back in your good graces. I’ve gotta ask: why _are_ you eating french fries with a knife and fork? You’re not actually a queen or something are you?”

 

Lexa gives her an eyeroll. “I like to keep my fingers clean if I can help it.” She eats a quartered fry from her fork with relish.

 

Clarke hmms, before reaching over and nabbing a fry for herself. She licks the salt and grease off her fingers clean. That whisky cannot get here fast enough. “That’s a shame.”

 

At the wink that is sent her way, Lexa can’t help but groan. “I’m regretting this drink already.”

 

“Well, we have all night. Maybe I’ll be able to change your mind about that.”

 

Lexa decides, whisky or not, she's looking forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> 10 points if you can guess which podcast these idiots went to see.


End file.
